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dream a little dream for me
#WritcoStoryChallenge
The footsteps following me sounded closer. I ran through the empty corridors of the hospital, my heart pounding with terror.
I turned a corner and stopped short. I had reached a dead end. The Dreamer by Lex Parise
The head was almost obscured by the big black bee stung hands; but if one looked closely one could make out the panic ridden face of a soon to be deceased....chicken.The sound that started to echo from its flapping beak was not a shrill scream but a soul-searching screech,that started low and started to build, until it startled me awake on the sudden turn at 77th street subway station where poultry became real.I blinked twice.... once.. rubbed ....and then muffled a sickness yawn...across from my now semi focused eyes was the most out-of-place ...blue-eyed blond haired boy , his hippie coiffure straying lazily down one side of his almost laughingly gorgeous face.The humorous almost macabre part of this angelic visage is that in three short years he'd be in prison for the murder of a young mother ....he would take a lamp; when surprised suddenly during a b and e and bash her brains to a sickening silent halt but for now he was my partner ...one of two.....he was Peter... My eyes were sick- flowing tears with a mixture of a need and unspoken sadness. My blond associate became clear ...he was giving me the headtilt to the right ,a non-verbal way of saying "look at this".I looked... it was an old man scratching his nose rubbing his face in a half nod which embodied a lifetime of so many disappointments..I smiled. I understood what he meant... it was that hope that we too would be soon in that glorious condition .That tragic dichotomy:
Of why have you forsaken me?..and do this in memory of me. The clatter clash of the broken and bruised subway car almost knocked our junkie Jesus to the floor and woke us to the here and now .......I closed my eyes in a futile attempt to relax my legs and stop the incessant banging of my knees....my uncle thought this was the secret to keeping thin... in fact it was one of the features of a unstoppable anxiety that had been with me since early on in my life. The waiting, the going, the getting was the way of the modern Burroughs.... when we looked back in future years... going would be romanticized, waiting would be pushed far back into our memories and the getting would be the silent enemy never defeated.
The hallway was plaster filled poverty.Smelling of dinner,supper and dirt.It made it clean.The young lords the Spanish answer to the black Panthers had a store front next door.
We started up the worn out steps made quieter by the early morning ,we needed and the third floor was holding out the hand of bliss ;as long as your hand had the money ...I shouted Peter.. the money ...he...
The footsteps following me sounded closer. I ran through the empty corridors of the hospital, my heart pounding with terror.
I turned a corner and stopped short. I had reached a dead end. The Dreamer by Lex Parise
The head was almost obscured by the big black bee stung hands; but if one looked closely one could make out the panic ridden face of a soon to be deceased....chicken.The sound that started to echo from its flapping beak was not a shrill scream but a soul-searching screech,that started low and started to build, until it startled me awake on the sudden turn at 77th street subway station where poultry became real.I blinked twice.... once.. rubbed ....and then muffled a sickness yawn...across from my now semi focused eyes was the most out-of-place ...blue-eyed blond haired boy , his hippie coiffure straying lazily down one side of his almost laughingly gorgeous face.The humorous almost macabre part of this angelic visage is that in three short years he'd be in prison for the murder of a young mother ....he would take a lamp; when surprised suddenly during a b and e and bash her brains to a sickening silent halt but for now he was my partner ...one of two.....he was Peter... My eyes were sick- flowing tears with a mixture of a need and unspoken sadness. My blond associate became clear ...he was giving me the headtilt to the right ,a non-verbal way of saying "look at this".I looked... it was an old man scratching his nose rubbing his face in a half nod which embodied a lifetime of so many disappointments..I smiled. I understood what he meant... it was that hope that we too would be soon in that glorious condition .That tragic dichotomy:
Of why have you forsaken me?..and do this in memory of me. The clatter clash of the broken and bruised subway car almost knocked our junkie Jesus to the floor and woke us to the here and now .......I closed my eyes in a futile attempt to relax my legs and stop the incessant banging of my knees....my uncle thought this was the secret to keeping thin... in fact it was one of the features of a unstoppable anxiety that had been with me since early on in my life. The waiting, the going, the getting was the way of the modern Burroughs.... when we looked back in future years... going would be romanticized, waiting would be pushed far back into our memories and the getting would be the silent enemy never defeated.
The hallway was plaster filled poverty.Smelling of dinner,supper and dirt.It made it clean.The young lords the Spanish answer to the black Panthers had a store front next door.
We started up the worn out steps made quieter by the early morning ,we needed and the third floor was holding out the hand of bliss ;as long as your hand had the money ...I shouted Peter.. the money ...he...
